


Ain't it sad how we try to hold on? Or maybe it's beautiful?

by saikowrites



Category: Persona 5
Genre: 2/2, Coffee chat, Emotional Intimacy, Idk if there's a plot, Impromper Descartes quoting, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Missing Scene, Persona 5: The Royal Spoilers, Philosophical chat at 1am, Porn with Feelings, Spit As Lube, Switching, Teasing, Very complicated feelings, Wow that escaleted not so quickly, kind of?, slight introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24126163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saikowrites/pseuds/saikowrites
Summary: What do you do when you have one single night to process the regret, anger and other assorted complicated feelings born from months of pining before your sworn rival and ex almost murderer dies again?You call him and complicate things further, of course.Ft. Morgana's proverbial tact, Jamaican Blue Mountains coffee, philosophy of perception discourse and hormones.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 162





	Ain't it sad how we try to hold on? Or maybe it's beautiful?

**Author's Note:**

> If you know me personally please know I still have mixed feelings about this, Descartes quoting included. But who am I to say no to Goro Akechi being a smartass?
> 
> If you're just passing by I hope you enjoy my take on 2/2. After finishing Royal I was so happy with what the canon gave me that I was rather sure I wouldn't need to write anything else. *clown emoji*  
> Turns out I need to exorcise pain from that damn scene. I'm too weak for the "I literally have to choose between the entire world over your life" trope.
> 
> For some reasons sappy lyrics always inspire me things about these two. I was just listening to [RADWIMPS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YBNqNPjVM0) and then boom.  
> (Don't expect love confessions or saccharine words tho)
> 
> Big, huge, ENORMOUS thanks to my two psychological and writing supporters: DiscontinuousQualia and Hansei!

The star-shaped, black pupil of the MetaNav’s eye glares at him from the home screen of his phone; the glowing white icon flickers among the other apps, an ominous reminder of the battle to come.

Akira opens the group chat: no new messages have been sent after the various ‘see you all tomorrow,’ ‘let’s win this, too,’ and ‘we’ll give Maruki all we’ve got.’ The usual silence in the chat before a big heist tastes bittersweet, even more than the one preceding Sae’s Palace, with his fight with Akechi replaying in his mind non-stop.

He sighs and lets his hand fall on the mattress between the pillow and Morgana, curled up beside him and snoring. He rolls over on his side and adjusts the duvet. Morgana’s silhouette rises and falls in his peaceful sleep, the cold moonlight illuminates his fur and makes his bright yellow collar glimmer.

Akira closes his eyes. Tomorrow, this reality will end – how ironic that the boy who dreamt the longest is spending his last night in a restless wake. _‘Don’t tell me you think that dangling my life before us is going to have an impact on our decision’_ Akechi spelled, voice harsh. Akira smiles – wasn’t that the point? Maruki knew every one of them so well he granted them wishes they didn’t even realize they held dear. Of course he thought that would work. Akira bites his lower lip. Recalling the conversation causes his chest to tighten, his breath stuck in his lungs.

He jerks up and sits on the bed, hand still clenched onto his phone. Morgana waggles his tail and grunts, one of his eyes cracks open and a vivid blue iris watches him in the half-darkness.

“Are you still awake? Had a nightmare?” he speaks in a heavy voice.

Akira shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I just… need some fresh air.”

He slides open the window and a gust of icy wind hits his cheeks and sprinkles large snowflakes into his hair. The streetlamps light up the backstreets of Yongen-Jaya, with snow starting to stick to the rooftops, the balconies, the trees, the top of the poles connecting electric cables. His breath condenses in a white cloud that gets dispersed in the snowfall. He shivers, and Morgana sneezes.

“Jeez, it’s too cold. Close that window if you don’t want to get sick.” He yawns. “What time is it, by the way?”

Akira unlocks his phone. “Twenty minutes to midnight.”

“You should seriously get some sleep,” he rolls his eyes. His expression softens. “You’re still thinking about the conversation with Maruki, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Outside the window, everything is still. Chatter and celebrations come muffled from the restaurant beside Leblanc, with its clients drinking and singing sheltered from the snow. Even the snowflakes, although large and dense, fall on the deserted alley in slow motions. Just a peaceful night in a perfect world.

“Hey, Akira,” Morgana calls. “I know it’s rough, but you made the right choice. I don’t think Akechi would have been happy if he stayed in this reality.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

Morgana comes to his side and rubs his head against his leg. He lowers his gaze. “That being said, I’d understand it if you wanted to… say him a proper goodbye, before tomorrow comes.”

Akira glares at him and Morgana retreats.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to overstep. But if you feel like this, you should really talk to him again.”

“No, it’s fine,” he sighs. If he wanted to simply ‘say his goodbye,’ he could have done it that evening – but that just wasn’t the point, right? He passes a hand through his hair and huffs a laugh. “Seriously, it’s fine. You’re right, I should call him.”

Morgana hops on the windowsill. “I’ll go stay with Futaba, then. Send her a message so I won’t wait all night in the snow and freeze to death.”

Futaba is still online. Akira skips pleasantries and lectures about getting enough sleep and types a quick text. Her response comes, a thumb-up sticker with a _‘I’m allowed to ask Mona everything about what Maruki said to you tho.’_

“Ugh, fine,” Morgana comments with a twitch of his nose and whiskers. His sharp eyes set on him. “I’m doing this for our mission, got it? Be sure to rest enough, clear your mind and don’t have any regret. Tomorrow will be though.”

“Understood,” Akira nods, and gives him a light scratch between ears. “Thank you, Mona.”

The cat jumps on top of the wall surrounding the adjacent building and disappears in the Yongen-Jaya maze. Akira scrolls his contact list and starts the call.

One ring, two, three. He sneezes and closes the window.

“Kurusu? What’s the matter?” Akechi picks up.

“Oh, so you checked who was calling, and answered all the same.”

“And I’m already regretting it. What do you want?”

“You don’t sound like I woke you up, either.”

“You wouldn’t be sorry even if that were the case. Cut the interrogation and go straight to the point, I don’t have all night.”

Akira clears up the condensation on the glass with the sleeve of his night t-shirt and rests his chin in the palm of his hand.

“Do you think you can come back here?”

A pause.

“I don’t understand why I should do such a thing,” Akechi replies in a bothered voice. “Trains will stop running soon, I’ll just make it home in time.”

“You’re not home right now?”

Akechi exhales. “I’m in Kichijoji. Why do you want me to come? I believe that the matter we discussed about earlier is clear and closed – or do you intend to get back on your word?”

“Obviously not,” Akira frowns, “but are you sure everything is settled?”

Another silence.

“I made sure I had left nothing behind, yes. Are we done?”

“Actually, no, we’re not. How much time has passed since you last had a good cup of coffee?”

“I don’t think we have time for coffee, right now,” Akechi hisses. A breathing. “I’m sure that you’re well aware that I won’t be able to return home if I come to Leblanc at this hour.”

“Yes.”

A snort. “You’re insufferable. Move on and don’t get lost in your own sentimentalism. It’s no use sticking your nose in an issue that has already been closed.”

“Is it really though?”

“It should very well be. Let _me_ ask you a question: will this request of yours impact in any way the situation? Answer me – I won’t take any bullshit.”

“I won’t falter. I won’t make any other demand, either.”

Silence.

“Very well,” Akechi snickers. “I’ll accept your invitation. Make sure the coffee is worth the visit.”

Akira grins. “Sure. See you soon.”

He drops his weight on the bed. Will Sojiro kill him if he uses his finest beans? He’s gotten pretty experienced by now. He groans – no use in risking his life in eradicating another Palace if he will get skinned alive for accessing The Forbidden Shelf. He gets up and gets dressed; his hand lingers on the fake glasses folded on the working desk. He picks them up and adjusts them on his nose.

The old wooden stairs squeak under his quick steps down, and he turns back on the lights. The comfortable warmth of the café dispersed; the humid chill of early February took its place. His body shivers. He unlocks the door, leaves it slightly open and goes back to the kitchen.

The coffee shelves stand tall before him, assorted with plenty of glass jars varying in dimension and content. His fingers run to his hair and play with the thick strands of his fringe. Maybe he should go with something classic. He stretches a hand and grabs the Jamaican Blue Mountains jar; he twists off the cover and breathes in the rich, familiar scent.

He lights the fire under the siphon and grinds the beans, with only the creak of the machine and the gurgling of boiling water breaking the silence in the room. He puts the fine powder in the filters and places two ceramic cups on the counter.

The doorbell rings, Akechi enters the room and let the door close behind him. Watery snowflakes bead his hair, scarf, and the shoulders of his trench coat.

“It’s not so much warmer in here,” he comments with a frown.

“No heating while the café’s closed,” Akira mocks Sojiro’s voice. He raises the siphon as to imitate a toast. “That’s what the coffee is for. You are just in time.”

He pours the scalding water in the cups; it passes through the filters and causes a toasted scent to rise form the dark liquid. Akechi sits on the highchair in front of him, takes off the scarf and folds it upon the seat to his right. A black and white striped tie and the beige uniform jacket pop out from the coat.

“I’m expecting Mr. Sakura’s finest blend for the bother,” he crosses his legs and lays his chin on the back of his gloved hand.

Akira shrugs. “Only if you’d want to go in battle without a leader.” He slides one cup on the wooden counter. “I picked up a classic favorite.”

Akechi brings the cup to his lips and tastes the coffee. He closes his eyes. A smirk unfolds on his lips and he lets go a light huff.

“I remember this. You brewed it when I first visited this place last summer.”

“Jamaican Blue Mountains, yes,” Akira nods, hands in his pockets and back slightly curved.

He shakes his head. “This is so corny.” He takes another sip. “Will you just tell me why the impromptu or am I supposed to drink coffee until morning comes?”

“As if you have to pay for it,” he grins.

“Spare me the wit.”

Akira walks around the counter, moves a chair nearer to the other and sits beside him. Their elbows brush against each other in the movement.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Akechi’s brow quirks up. “Do I look like your back-alley, punk doctor?”

“I had too much on my mind.”

Hot coffee burns on his tongue, its bitterness makes his lips press closer together. Akechi’s russet eyes sharpen, he shifts in his seat to face him better and their legs almost touch.

“If you are so spineless that you’ve let your mind be manipulated by Maruki’s words, cut it with the cowardice and say it out loud.”

“My answer won’t change,” his grip around the cup tightens, “but I can’t help wondering if there would have been another outcome. Are you doubting me this much?”

Another sip. “It’s no use discussing it now. There’s no other way. And yes, to be frank, you gave and are still giving me reasons to doubt about your resolve.”

“Despite what you might think, Maruki is a clever man,” Akira comments with a wry smile.

“Or maybe,” Akechi spells through gritted teeth, “you’re just letting yourself be excessively touched by something trivial.”

Akira bites back his response and swallows it down his throat with more coffee. He lays the cup on the counter with a soft _clank_ and turns in the chair. Their knees bump into each other.

“You still came here, though.”

Akechi’s hand taps on the wooden surface. “And what with that?”

Akira crosses his arms and legs, the wood squeaks under his weight. “My mind is set.” His teeth linger on his bottom lip. “I won’t repeat it anymore. You have my word.” His limbs uncross and hands fall back on his side. “But don’t say it’s trivial.”

Akechi drinks the last bit of coffee. His head tilts on the right, eyes fixed on the cup and brows knotted; his lips pressed and jutted in the slightest. “It seems I’ve highly underestimated your foolishness.”

“It’s a common mistake,” he replies, the edges of his mouth curled up. He slips further on the seat, and his shoes lay on the footrest at the base of Akechi’s chair. Akechi’s head twists toward him, his piercing gaze a challenge.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t make other demands.” His breath smells of coffee.

Akira licks his lips. “I also said this won’t affect anything regarding tomorrow’s battle.”

“Better be the truth,” Akechi laughs a deep chuckle, and his eyes narrow. “Or else, I will personally get rid of both you _and_ Maruki,” he breathes out.

Akira leans in and closes the gap between them. Akechi’s breath hitches at the touch, but he presses forward and kiss back. His mouth is warm and still tastes of coffee; the soft skin of his cheek nuzzles against Akira’s nose – a faint, fresh note of citrus. He lets go and catches a quick breath to steady the pounding of his heart, but Akechi’s teeth nip at his bottom lip and keep him from moving away. Pain pulses in his flesh and sends a shiver down his spine; he closes his eyes and welcomes back Akechi’s mouth on his.

Goosebumps run up and down his body, he melts in them. Strands of hair brush, teeth clash; their tongues meet, still coated with pungent flavor. His right hand runs to the smooth, humid fabric of Akechi’s trench, squeezes it as if it could freeze time just by intense pressure.

The skin in the middle of his lower lip cracks with a sting and a sharp intake of his nostrils, small drips of blood smear over his tongue and Akechi’s own smiling mouth against his. He draws back and clears the cut with the joint of his index. With unsteady breathing, he adjusts the glasses, askew on his nose.

“I’m starting to get a feeling that you _really_ like my blood.”

Akechi makes up his old, pleasant smile. “I’ll make sure to clear the doubt, then,” his voice drips, sweet as honey. Akira’s whole body shivers.

“That was creepy.”

“Wasn’t it? I’m glad there’s no more need for such an act.”

The two empty cups stare at him from the counter. Akira swallows the lump in his throat and puts the cups in the kitchen sink. _There’s no turning back – you already wished for it once and look what happened._ He opens the faucet, cold water crashes on his hands and snaps him back to reality. He shakes them dry and walks to the stairs.

“There’s a stove in the attic,” he stops on the first step. “You can dry your clothes, too.”

He receives a heavy hum with a raised brow in response and shrugs with a light huff.

A soft warmth embraces him and makes the dusty air of the attic thicker. He moves one of the stored chairs near the stove: the fuel level is more than enough for the night. Steps echo behind his back, Akechi enters the room and leaves the scarf, coat, and shoes near the stove. His glare travels up and down his body.

“I can’t believe you stay in your own room with your shoes on.”

Akira drops on the bed and unlaces his boots. “Nasty habits are hard to kill.”

“Well, I suppose you do live in a shabby storage attic that cannot be completely considered a room.”

He lays down on his back, his hair brushing the wall under the window. The turned-off light bulbs hanging from the ceiling and the laundry cable that travels the attic from side to side come out from the half-darkness cast by the fire in the stove, only to disappear back in the blackness in another point of the room.

“Did you ever wonder if what you were living through was real? Before this moment I mean.”

The floor planks creak, and Akechi sits beside him on the futon. “Not very often, but I sometimes did that. I guess it’s only natural when you spend so much time in the Metaverse on your own.”

“When we were fighting against the Holy Grail, we suddenly disappeared. We were in the depths of Mementos the moment prior, and then we were brought back to Shibuya. And no one was seeing us. They… simply forgot about our existence, and so we disappeared.” Akira raises a hand before his eyes, made of flesh and bones and tangible. “In that moment, I wondered if reality is indeed so fickle, one can simply vanish from it and nothing will change.”

Akechi bends over, his fingers bury in the futon and lightly touch Akira’s head and his face enters the frame, chestnut hair fluttering in the air and reddish pupils lighted up by the pale rays filtering from the street.

“This seems a quite naïve reflection coming from someone who exploited reality and cognition to fake his own death, you now.” With his other hand, he catches Akira’s chin and tilts it left and right to observe the cut on his lip. The firm touch of cold leather makes him shiver. Akechi presses harder.

“I still think it’s stupid wasting a night’s rest before a battle talking about hypotheticals, but I don’t believe sleep were ever an option, no?”

“Are you telling me,” Akira grabs his wrist, “that the whole Hegel thing was a farce, too?” He moves the hand up, nips at the gloved thumb and pulls; Akechi complements the movement with a raised eyebrow and a pleased smile.

“No, I do find philosophy quite interesting.” He takes off the other glove and lays them on the windowsill. “Speaking of which, have you ever heard of Descartes? He’s a French philosopher, among many other things.”

Akira squints his eyes. An early autumn morning, a free seat on the train. A thick book he found in Jinbocho about the history of philosophy. “Was he the one with the doubting thing?”

“The ‘I think, therefore I am,’ yes,” Akechi sighs. “To put it very simply, he argued that a person cannot doubt of one’s existence while one doubts. Because there must be a thinking entity to generate a thought.”

“But how can I be sure that it’s me the one who’s thinking?” Akira jolts up and meets his eyes.

Akechi nods. “That was one of the counterarguments.”

“So, neither philosophy can answer this question?”

“It’s more than a mere ‘question’. The process of knowledge itself is a dilemma that spans throughout the entire history of philosophy.”

Akira chews on his lip. The cut reopens, his mouth twitches and pain stings harder. Akechi’s eyes widen and his mouth open as if words got stuck in the process. He shakes his head.

“You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?”

“What if I am?”

Teeth bite down flesh, and he hisses. Ache pulses, Akechi’s taste mixes with copper on his mouth. Akira cups his face and drags them down; his back hits the mattress and his fingers run to the back of Akechi’s head, his hair tickling his cheeks. Akechi’s slightly parted lips are pinker, his eyes darker. Akira traces the shape of his jaw with his thumbs.

“I remember Mona telling us the entire world is the product of cognition – not just the Metaverse. And so, it can be freely remade.”

“It’s the process Maruki’s power is based on,” Akechi looks down.

“Are you like,” his hands stop, “some sort of Schrodinger’s cat?”

A sigh.

“I’m no quantum mechanics expert, but I suppose it’s not too far off. As of now, there are two realities contemporary true – the one we came from, and this one. Although, we can experience only one reality at a given time – this is why Maruki’s pantomime can potentially substitute the true reality.”

Akechi pulls his thick black fringe up, uncovers Akira’s forehead; the movements of his bare fingers burn against his skin. Russet eyes stare at him, at the point between his eyes, just in the middle of his forehead where the hairline begins. Blood pulses in his ears. He takes a sharp breath.

“No more blood there, I fear.”

“No,” Akechi frowns. He lets go of his hair, and his hands hesitate mid-air. He takes off his glasses and sits on his heels to fold them near the gloves, knees buried in the futon and pressed at the side of Akira’s tights. Wrinkles have formed on the jacket, its collar askew, and the necktie loosened up. Strands of hair run wild on top of his head, they form a little halo against the moonlight. Akira sits back up, his brows knotted.

“Just… how are you alive?”

“As I’m sure I’ve said before,” Akechi rolls his eyes, “it’s most likely what happened with Isshiki and Okumura: I never died to begin with.”

Akira reaches for his shoulders, gives a squeeze, and slides his palms down his chest. Under his right one, a heart beats a steady rhythm.

“So, your… life. Un-death. It’s a product of cognition.” He unbuttons the jacket. “But, you’re not a shadow.”

Akechi lets it slide down his arms and tosses it aside. “You have a twisted concept of conversations to have while undressing.” Fingers trace the lines of his exposed collarbones, they travel up to his neck and down to the side under the black blazer, and Akira shivers and closes his eyes.

“I’m just trying to understand,” he whispers. The necktie reaches their jackets, and he starts working with the shirt’s collar. He slips his fingers under the fabric and scratches the back of his neck, warm and humid and pulsing. Their foreheads bump together.

“It’s no use,” Akechi breathes against his lips, “this is nothing more than a dream, a perfect wonderland that only bends to Maruki’s will.” His eyes sharpen, Akira’s movements stop. “If you believe that by understanding how this works you might be able to do something, then don’t. You gave your word, Akira.”

His heart skips a beat. “Say it again,” he smirks.

“Oh, no,” Akechi kisses his jaw, his neck, his earlobe, “that would be too easy.”

His head falls on the pillow, his back arches, and a gasp escapes him with every touch, every brush of Akechi’s lips on his skin. Akira’s unsteady fingers open the last button of the shirt and force it down Akechi’s arms and on the floor. He entangles his fingers in his hair and kisses him with a hunger that only grows the more he tastes him.

“I’ll make you say it,” he pants, eyes fierce.

Akechi slides a hand under his t-shirt. “You’re so confident.” He traces the line of his spine; Akira lets go of his hair and takes off the t-shirt.

“Mark my words, _Goro_.”

“So, we start it even,” Akechi snickers, eyes wilde and cheeks a tone pinker.

Akira arches his back and meets his body, the heat generated by skin on skin intoxicating. He plays with Akechi’s soft locks, bites in his shoulder, sucks at the joint between his neck and his ear – his moans, quick sighs leaking from his lips, are a gift he will cherish in his heart, so open despite the attempts to restrain them.

Soft fingertips travel down his chest, quivering and unscathed despite the blood, the fights, the injuries – all gone outside of the Metaverse. They pinch his hips, unbuckle his belt, sneak under his jeans and past his underwear and, _God_ , Akira could die. He clenches onto the sheets and kicks away his pants, opens his mouth, but only wet sounds leave his throat.

Wide pupils meet his own. A grin. “Cat got your tongue?”

“More like a crow,” he retorts.

He closes his eyes, buries his nape in the pillow; every uneven stroke makes his toes curl and his breath hitch. Fringe sticks to his forehead beaded in sweat, his face flushed as if he has a fever. A stronger squeeze of his dick, and the pit of his stomach twists. His hands lace behind Akechi’s back, nails dig in his skin following the line of his spine and obtain a low whine, they trail down and stop at the hem of his pants. _Tch_.

Akira captures his lips and struggles with the belt and the zipper, slides the last clothes down and grabs the exposed ass. The gasp that escapes Akechi, his double blink, they taste of delicious victory. Heavy breathing matches Akira’s own, as it does his messy hair and flushed cheeks.

Akechi’s hand moves away from his aching dick and goes back up beside his head. His reddish eyes scan his face, they sharpen and focus as if pondering the next move. Akira wets his lips and swallows down. Akechi’s mouth curl up in a smirk. With a deliberate movement, he places his index on Akira’s mouth and presses on the cut.

“Asshole,” Akira scowls and bites down. Akechi takes the hit with a grimace and slides it further. Akira breathes in, blinks and moves his tongue around the index under Akechi’s gaze, alight and hungry, wide pupils surrounded by bloody red. He parts his lips and lets go of the finger, that disappears behind Akechi’s back. 

Akechi’s eyes flutter shut, his mouth takes the shape of a little ‘o’ and his neck arches in the slightest. A soft gasp, a hum. His chest rises and falls, shoulders jitter, body presses tighter against his. Akira forces his nose to inhale and exhale. A smile unfolds on his face.

“Maybe I should thank Maruki tomorrow.”

“Or, you could be of help now.”

Akira kisses him, one hand entangles in his hair and the other runs down, to where their lengths rub against each other with every little movement and grabs them together, moves up and down, faster and faster the more Akechi pants against his mouth. A scream in his belly, a plea fore more. He seals his lips, he won’t beg. Akechi’s teeth sting in his lower lip – a wave of pain. He sucks it, kiss it, soothe it – sweet pleasure.

“Fuck, Goro,” he breathes out. A knowing smile unfolds on Akechi’s face. _Shit._

“Don’t tell me, you were all talk?”

Akira glares back and squeezes harder their dicks together. A loud, closed-eyes moan.

“Too early to claim victory.”

Akechi’s pupils glimmer in the half-darkness, a little glassy, they leak a need neither he will plead for. His hand goes back beside the pillow and he supports with his palms.

“We’ll see.”

He shifts position, moves a bit forward. Akira spits in his hand and massages the tip of his dick. Akechi raises and eyebrow, and Akira forces himself not to headbutt him. He matches Akechi’s movements, raises his hips and meets him; he slides in and – it’s warm, tight, it takes his breath away. Akechi lowers further on him, slow and torturing and sweet; Akira wets his lips and digs nails in his palm.

“Fuck.”

“You’re very pretty when you lose your cool composure,” Akechi teases in a whisper. His voice tickles against his ear, his teeth nibble his lobe. Akira buries his nose in the crook of his neck, sucks a mark on pale, hot skin, and clings to him. Chest against chest, their heart beat a frantic rhythm, every pulse is a shot of adrenaline through his veins. His body jerks up, he needs more.

“Akira!”

His name, cried out, so enchanting. So addictive. An imploring sound he could die for. He slows the pace and let Akechi rests his forehead on his, face flushed, a desperate pulsing of blood against his skull.

“If-” Akira asks between pants, “if I ask it… properly, will you say it again?”

“I believe you said you’d make me,” Akechi mutters, breath short. He traces the shape of Akira’s collarbones, gaze focused on his skin.

Akira’s tongue lingers on the cut, tastes sweat and a hint of copper. His gaze stays firm. He moves, each thrust drags a quick gasp from those turned-cherry lips. Akechi’s eyes half-close and he indulges his faster and faster movements, the grip of his hand on Akira’s shoulder tight at the point of nails digging down. Akira runs his fingers on his arms, up to his shoulders, and lowers his ear near to his mouth. He inhales, heart pounding.

“Please, Goro?”

Body tenses, muscles tighten around him. _Fuck_. He bites back every noise.

Shoulders relax. A soft, closed-mouth chuckle.

“You truly are unbelievable.”

Akira gives a quick massage near his shoulder blades and lets Akechi watch him eye to eye.

“That’s why you hate me.”

Akira’s lip bleeds and he shivers in the pain and pleasure, his hands move down to cup Akechi’s jaw in the kiss. He hastens the pace of his thrusts, the more the scream in his belly grows, the more his mind clouds. His name, called and gasped and moaned between quick breaths, the most sweet-sounding litany.

He won’t forget. His skin won’t, marked with scratches and bites, neither his hair, tangled up in its messiest state by slender fingers, nor his mouth, full of his taste. Tomorrow’s battle will come, and he’ll grit teeth at his aching limbs and shout out commands as if nothing had ever happened. But in his body, in his heart – he will know the truth.

Akira breaks from the kiss, his voice shakes.

“Goro – I’m-”

Hot mouth on his, it follows the arching back of his head in the pillow. Goro’s name on his tongue, a triggered fuse just about to explode. The lips that silenced him detach from his – they part, and cry his given name, and it’s too much to bear.

He comes, and everything blurs out. His eyes close.

Heavy breathings make his chest rise and fall, weighted by Goro’s sweaty body, so very exposed and worn out and _alive_. His head falls back. A lump forms a tight knot in his throat, it makes the corner of his eyes itch. He holds his breath. Exhales. Watery warmth runs down his cheekbone ad gets lost in the thick mess of his hair.

Goro’s russet irises stares at him, they widen and blink and travel all over his face. His hand moves but stops mid-air. Akira’s face burn.

“I’m fine-”

“You’re obviously not don’t bullshit me. I’m not suddenly stupid because we fucked.”

“No, you’re right,” Akira breathes out. “This sucks. But I’ll manage.”

One of Goro’s brow shoots up. “Glad to know you’ll keep such a horrible memory of me.”

“You just can’t help being an asshole,” Akira groans. He raises on his elbows, and Goro rolls aside. His stomach is a sticky mess, and he would sell the world to another God just to get a shower. On the windowsill, a pair of fake glasses and a pair of black leather gloves.

“I still have your glove,” Akira thinks aloud.

Goro sits on the futon. “Do you intend to give it back to me already?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “We still haven’t had a rematch.”

“A foolish answer to a stupid question,” Goro’s lips curl in a smirk.

Akira yawns and stretches, and the bones of his shoulders pop.

“What a pity though. I could’ve gotten used to spend my nights like this.”

Goro’s lips on his own shut him up.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, he "gently closed the mouth that says /That it’s fine to accept a false happiness." Keep scrolling.
> 
> (Btw, I'm @saikolikes on Twitter if you want occasional reblogs of: P5, FE3H, other assorted weeb things!)


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